Behavioural Studies
by tetleybag
Summary: Elvis has the perfect mistress. She can ride and repair things and say what's what and keep a pack safe. But she is alone. Miss Peters/Mam'zelle Rougier, with various background pairings. f/f


**Disclaimer:** The world of Malory Towers belongs to Enid Blyton or whoever holds the rights these days. I only claim the OC and a few first names.

**Author's Notes:** Dedicated to my wizard fellow discerning Miss Peters fan The Real Snape, with jolly special thanks to Kelly Chambliss for the beta!

*

Elvis has about two ounces of brain.

He's heard that once. He doesn't know how much two ounces are, but he supposes that it's quite all right by him. Enough in any case for him to do his job in the stable and to keep the boys from the nearby village off the grounds. It's also sufficient to protect his human when she's out riding all by herself, and to steer clear of the horse's clattering hooves in the process.

Yes, two ounces sounds quite all right for a Border Terrier.

***

Elvis lives at Malory Towers. He is proud of the fact, for it is the finest school in the world (never mind what that bitch from St Clare's says). He loves the girls and most of the mistresses, and he's on friendly terms with the horses. Lady Catherine is his favourite, of course, a stately mare with a fluffy, white mane, but Clarissa's little Merrylegs and Bill's dark stallion Thunder are close seconds.

But the one he loves best in the entire world is his human – the one to whom he can look for guidance, the one who takes him home with her during the holidays and makes sure that there are always nibbles in the feed cupboard and water in his bowl.

Yes, he loves his Janet. Or Miss Peters, as the girls call her. In cold winter nights, when the wind howls around the corners of the castle, she sometimes fetches him from the stable and lets him sleep in her room, although that's strictly forbidden. Then they cuddle up on the floor in front of the sofa (for he's not allowed _on _it) and she pets him with her large, comforting hands, or they play ball, but quietly, lest the other mistresses be disturbed in their rest.

Janet also teaches him things. They practise every day, which he enjoys immensely. As much as he likes his job as a horse-and-girl minder, he sometimes feels greatly under-challenged by it. He may have only two ounces of brain, but they're very _good_ ounces. Far better in any case than those of the milkman's daft Jack Russell. No, Elvis is a _literate_ dog. He knows words. He can tell a ball from a book and a shoe from a shirt. In fact, Janet has taught him her entire wardrobe. Boots. Jodhpurs. Jacket. Skirt is difficult because it sounds so much like shirt, but he manages if she says it clearly. Or he can deduce it from the words that go with it. Dratted skirt. White shirt.

So in short, Janet is the most exciting, likeable, and intelligent human he knows.

He only wishes that there were somebody in this world to share that insight.

For Janet Peters is lonely. Certainly there are the girls and the other mistresses, some of whom are quite nice, and there are Pop and Cook and the vet and his wife, who all like to share a laugh with her whenever they see her. But still, he senses that something is lacking in Janet's life. For example, most other humans he knows don't live alone in the hols. They have another human, usually an adult, and sometimes children. And they have big gatherings with other humans on some occasions, like those where they put up trees that you're not allowed to pee on.

Janet doesn't have that. Perhaps she had it before he moved in with her. There must have been a life before him, given that she's considerably older than him. She'd already been sexually mature when he was a puppy, and one knows how late that happens with humans. But in the four or seven or so hols he's come home with her, she's really spent most of her time by herself, reading and riding and pottering around in the stable. Sometimes she gets visits from her brother or Miss Grayling and her friend, and sometimes the elderly neighbours pop over, or she helps them with their animals or paints their fence. But other than that, she is alone.

She takes it well, most of the time. She has Lady Catherine and him, and she's happy when they're out riding, with the sun warming them and the wind tousling their hair and fur. Yet something is missing. He knows. For sometimes, when Janet is alone, she is sad. And sometimes, when nobody but he is around, she curls up on the sofa, and he walks up to her and listens to her sniffling quietly, and all he can do is lick the salt from her cheeks, sad because she is. Alphas shouldn't be like that.

He'd love to be able to do more. He knows that as much as she appreciates the gesture, it's not his licks on her cheek that she lacks. But he's a dog. He can't do more, and he knows that she doesn't expect him to. They understand each other that way. There's just not the energy between them, the sizzle that he feels for example with the bitch from St Clare's. Or with his stuffed crocodile when things get really desperate (though he hopes that this information will be kept strictly confidential).

Perhaps some kissing would be good for her. Humans like kissing. A lot. One might wonder how he knows that, being a dog and all, but even a dog only has to look at Miss Williams when she gets out of Mr Young's small car as he drops her off at the back gate on Sunday nights, and one knows exactly what kissing is and what it does to humans.

Though Elvis admits that it has taken him a while to get to the bottom of this whole kissing thing. At first he thought that it was about sharing food. It would be only logical to do that with someone for whom one cares very much. So when he saw his first kiss in one of the boxes in the stable, naturally he went up to them to find out. The pair didn't look as if they were going to share what they had with him (it had to be something very delicious by the sound of it), but it could never hurt to ask politely.

Thus, he approached them and sat down, putting on his best, manipulative puppy stare – the one that even works on Janet on occasions. Of course they didn't notice him. How could they, with their eyes closed and human noses being what they are? So he edged closer. And closer. Until his nose was right there with theirs.

And then Bill and Clarissa saw him and chased him away, holding their sides laughing.

There was no food.

***

Yet Elvis understands that even without food, kissing makes humans intensely happy, probably happier than most things. Except perhaps sex. If humans _have_ sex, that is. They seem perfectly normal beings in most respects, but he has never seen them at it, and he isn't one to jump to conclusions.

So a kissing partner might be just the thing for Janet. But who? A man might be nice, like Mr Young or Pop the handyman. Not the postman, of course; that would be sinking a bit low. But with a man, there might be the prospect of a baby human some day, and that might be nice, too.

However, there are various problems to this.

Number one is that there are precious few men in the world. Apart from Mr Young and Pop, there are only the boys from the village and the vet, who is old. Some of the girls seem to have fathers – but other than that, the world is _full_ of women and girls. How they manage with a ratio like that is beyond him.

Number ... thingy ... , however, is more important. For if Janet really wanted a man, she'd get one. Who could possibly not love her? She has a big heart and a friendly manner, and she can ride fast and repair things and say what's what and keep a pack safe. But he is quite sure that Janet _doesn't_ want a man. Between Janet and men, there's hardly more sizzle than between Janet and him, Elvis. She's cordial with men, if sometimes a bit brisker than with the other mistresses, but there just isn't that ease and that warmth that she feels whenever she's with women.

So a woman it should probably be. Truth be told, he doesn't understand why so _many_ women in this world prefer to kiss other women, but who is he to judge? After all, they think some of his manners strange that he finds perfectly normal, so why shouldn't it work the other way round? He sniffs toads, they kiss women. Nothing about which to get your collar in a twist.

He decides to keep his eyes and nostrils open.

The first option he considers is Winnie the games captain. She often shoots Janet hazy looks when Janet isn't watching, and that little heart beats rather faster when she walks by the stable. Not that she had much business by the stable, being everything but a rider. But although Janet is very friendly with Winnie and often takes her for short walks up the cliffs, where they sit and talk for a while, she doesn't seem to want to kiss her. Well, Winnie is still almost a child, and Janet probably likes someone a bit older.

The next possibility occurs to him when they receive a very pleasant visit in the Easter holidays. Miss Grayling! Now, there's a woman! Miss Grayling is wonderful. She has a calm, quiet manner and a friendly, deep voice. Much like Janet, actually. And she likes animals. Not at all like that chubby Mam'zelle Dupont in her dainty shoes, who shrieks every time she crosses the path of a dog or cat or horse. Or Miss Potts, who has the most unnerving, bird-like voice, even though she's otherwise quite nice. No, Miss Grayling hasn't a single less-than-perfect bone in her body. Her hands are soft, her touch is gentle, and she even smells nice. And she is the alpha of Malory Towers. She would be a very deserving kissing partner for his Janet.

But Miss Grayling already kisses her friend Miss Theobald, the owner of the bitch from St Clare's. And as far as Elvis can tell, humans only ever kiss _one_ other human. Except that awful brat June, but she's something else entirely. Miss Theobald is very nice, too, with a manner and voice just as pleasant as Miss Grayling's, although she's more the angular type, rather like Janet. And he senses that there is at least a _little_ bit of love between them all, even if it's not as much as between Miss Grayling and Miss Theobald, between whom there is very, very much. But he doesn't suppose that a human can kiss two humans at the same time.

And then he decides not to give the matter further thought for the moment because the bitch from St Clare's has jumped up, butt in the air and chest on the ground, asking him to play.

Well, he isn't made of wood, either.

***

By the time he and Janet arrive back at Malory Towers after the Easter hols, he has completely forgotten about kissing and such. There is simply too much to investigate and inspect and get used to. New plants have popped up, and old ones have grown. There is a new horse to become acquainted with, and Pop has put the small chairs and tables out on the terrace, which is rather a bother. For the love of Dog, can't those humans ever leave things the way they are when they've been perfectly fine to begin with? Also, the rabbits have multiplied yet again. Not that he approved of that, but deep down below he feels that there is something to be said for at least someone around him behaving as he would expect it from a living being.

And something else has changed.

Mam'zelle Rougier is seen around the horse stable more often these days.

Now, there is something strange indeed. Mam'zelle Rougier doesn't ride. She doesn't even like animals. In that, she is much like the other Mam'zelle (but really _only_ in that, for she has corners where the other Mam'zelle has padding, and she's straight-backed where the other has begun to stoop a bit of late). Perhaps it has something to do with being French. He doesn't know what French is, but it's what they say the two Mam'zelles are. It probably means being called Mam'zelle and not liking animals. And smelling of flowers other than lavender, perhaps.

Stranger still, Mam'zelle Rougier never actually goes _into_ the stable. Instead, she comes down on those mornings when everyone else, even Janet, is at prayer and sits down on the bench behind it. The one with the beautiful view, and that's so nicely protected from the wind that often wafts over from the cliffs, so that Janet could even plant a rose bush there. Nobody else ever sits on this bench, except Janet when she watches the sun set behind the sea.

Mam'zelle Rougier usually shoos him away, so he doesn't know exactly what she does there. She always has a book with her, and sometimes a pen, but he never hears her turn any pages. And she has a smelly stick on which she sucks now and then.

And she is sad.

Sometimes Mam'zelle Rougier is so deep in thought that Elvis manages to creep up to her. She gives off a strange scent, and it makes him curious. There are the flowers and the biting smoke, but there's also agitation. She's a bit afraid, and she's a bit confused. And sometimes, only sometimes, he smells sadness and a faint trace of salt. But then she blows her nose, and it's just agitation and anxiety again.

Perhaps Mam'zelle Rougier is as lonely as Janet.

She seems to want it that way, though. If not, why doesn't she just wait around after the bell rings? The girls and the mistresses always come out after prayer when the sun shines, and Janet come out no matter what the weather is like. All Mam'zelle Rougier would have to do is stay and wait, and she wouldn't be so alone any more. Who knows, she might even get to laugh for a change.

Instead, she grabs her book and the small blue package with the smelly sticks when she hears the East Tower bell, and sometimes a rose that she's picked from the bush, and disappears like a rabbit that has heard a bark.

Strange.

But, well, he thinks as he curls up on the sunny patch of grass next to the rose bush. Each creature according to its predilections. He is, after all, a very literate dog.

Days and weeks pass with sunbathing, checking the budding flowers and shrubs, and playing with the girls who are now seen out-of-doors more often. One day, Pop cleans out the swimming pool down in the rocks. That day is an exhausting one – so many small heaps of leaves to be fluffed up, examined, and labelled, so many branches and twigs to be rearranged and removed. As much as he likes Pop, the handyman just doesn't have the right eye for the potential of landscape gardening with mouldy branches and dry leaves.

He completely forgets about Mam'zelle Rougier.

He even forgets about his stuffed crocodile.

Until one day – the others are in the small chapel again, singing their hymns and saying their prayers – he hears a scream from the stables.

Human in distress! He jumps up from his sunny place by the pool, runs up the back steps that lead to the paddock and is up at the stable in a whiff.

Where he stops dead. It's Mam'zelle Rougier. Sitting on the cobblestone path that leads to the bench with the nice view, wincing in pain as she holds her ankle. His stuffed crocodile is lying by her side. So that's where it's been all along.

Mam'zelle Rougier has undone her shoe, and she's shivering lightly, like someone who has hurt herself very badly. That confuses Elvis. On the one hand, he's a dog. He should investigate; it's what dogs do. On the other hand, she doesn't like him, and he isn't sure if his ministrations would be welcome. What if she slaps him like she's just slapped his crocodile?

His heart beats faster. He feels torn, and he hates how that gets him all worked up. He wags his tail, but even that isn't enough to provide relief. He'll need something stronger. So he carefully ventures closer, just until he reaches his stuffed crocodile. He takes it quickly, runs a few feet, and pours his heart and soul and all of his two ounces of brain into giving the crocodile a good, thorough shake.

There, that feels better.

When he looks up, he sees Mam'zelle Rougier looking at him and the crocodile. Puzzled, at first. But then she does something that takes Elvis entirely by surprise. She laughs. Really and sincerely laughs. It sounds quite nice, actually. Although her voice is one of the deeper ones that he generally prefers, he's never liked it much, with the snarky edge that it carries so frequently and that sometimes makes even the girls' ears dart back. But the laugh is nice. Warm and throaty. She should do it more often.

He approaches tentatively, until a long-fingered hand swiftly waves him away.

Mam'zelle Rougier scrambles up and heaves herself onto the bench, still massaging her ankle. He feels half an impulse to bring her the shoe that she's taken off on the path. It is a pretty shoe, made from lots of pleasant-smelling leather and long strings and a bit of wood at the heel. But he decides against it. As well-intentioned as the service might be, humans generally do not like it if dogs take their shoes into their mouths, no matter if he even provides the extra service of softening the leather a bit for them. He's learned that from Janet.

He is still standing there as the sound of the ringing bell drifts over from the chapel.

The girls flow out of the building, followed by the mistresses. Most of them head right for the swimming pool, where they sometimes have picnics after prayer. Only Janet walks towards the stable.

Ah, good!

He runs over to her, his tail still wagging from the excitement. Noticing his agitation as she greets him, she sets out to follow him in a brisk stride. When she sees Mam'zelle Rougier on her bench, she gives a start and runs to her, all the way. She's a brave one, his Janet. If she is afraid that Mam'zelle Rougier will slap her, too, then she doesn't let on. She even kneels down before her and reaches for the ankle. They argue briefly, and Mam'zelle Rougier says something curt (she's always strangely brief with Janet even by her standards), but Janet won't be put off. It's what he admires most about her. When she thinks she's right, she'll just staunchly refuse to argue with you. And because she usually _is_ right, you just go with her.

Elvis lies down in the corner by the rose bush and watches them from a distance.

It takes Mam'zelle Rougier a while to relax. She keeps arguing and tensing up. And there's the agitation again, and her breath quickens, and the shivers are back. Really. One would think it's the first time she's hurt herself. If this woman behaves like that at the human-vet, he'd be embarrassed to be her dog.

At least Janet remains all calm and serene.

Or does she?

_Janet???_

He poises his ears and whiskers for concentration. Janet is usually all matter-of-fact when she tends to a being that's hurt. Not this time, though. Her pulse is strangely quick, and those are most certainly goosebumps as she puts her hands around the ankle and gives it a gentle twirl. There's warmth and softness, and her skin smells sweet on the surface. But there's a bit of nervousness beneath it all. Nervousness and fear.

Strange.

***

In the following weeks, Elvis sees rather less of Janet. She still comes out riding every day, and she hasn't forgotten his lessons. But they're a bit shorter now, often interrupted by cuddles (not that he minds), and she seems somehow distracted.

She also gets along better with Mam'zelle Rougier. Mam'zelle's tone has softened considerably towards her, and Janet often comes back early from her rides now. Then she feeds him and Lady Catherine, and when he wakes up from his first afternoon nap, he usually finds her sitting on the terrace with Mam'zelle, back in the small, sunny niche that's so nicely out-of-view from the castle. And there she isn't distracted at all. But whenever he tries to join them in their sunny patch, out of the blue there usually appears Miss Grayling and takes him for a walk.

And then, one night, he sees them kiss.

It is a slightly chilly night for the season, with an unpleasant drizzle in the air and a light wind from the sea that goes right into the undercoat. Not a weather a dog enjoys. He wouldn't mind sleeping on a nice, soft carpet in the castle on a night like this, and so he's glad when he sees Janet come back from her evening out. She and Mam'zelle Rougier are getting out of a car by the gate, and he follows them at a respectful distance. Janet may like Mam'zelle Rougier better now, but he still isn't convinced that he wants to get too close to the bony French mistress.

He doesn't know where they've been, but it must have been great fun, for he hears Mam'zelle Rougier chuckling again, and one knows how much it takes to make her do that. It can't have had anything to do with riding, though, because Mam'zelle Rougier's shoes are about as unlike riding boots as any shoes he's ever seen. They're small, with mini-leashes tied around her fully-recovered ankles. And they make her even taller than Janet. Not one to concede the alpha position easily, it seems. Janet has also put on something unusual: she's wearing _both_ the dratted skirt and the white shirt. If only he remembered which was which.

In any case, through the drizzle they run in their shirts and shoes and skirts, protected by Janet's light trench coat that she holds above their heads, until they reach the back stairs of the South Tower. His luck. Janet lives in the West Tower, so this means that Mam'zelle Rougier will go in first, and that will hopefully give him the opportunity to ask Janet in private if she really means to leave him outside in such inclement conditions.

Janet puts a light hand on Mam'zelle Rougier's shoulder as they reach the stairs, and Mam'zelle smiles. She really seems quite pleasant when she does that. Not so stern. And Janet seems to think so, too. For she takes another step or two towards the wall until they're both hidden in the shadow of the ivy, and then she brings Mam'zelle Rougier's hands up to her lips and brushes them with a gentle kiss.

Mam'zelle Rougier looks Janet in the eyes, and Janet looks back. As a puppy he'd have been alarmed now, but he's seen enough of humans to know that when humans like each other, staring is generally not considered offensive. So he has no fear that the eye-gazing will turn into a bitchfight and sits down to wait until they've seen enough.

Then they kiss for real.

Mam'zelle Rougier puts her hand around Janet's neck and pulls her closer until their lips meet. Janet wraps her arms around Mam'zelle Rougier in response, and for the first time that he can recall, there is no tension at all between them, just warmth and tenderness and considerable heartbeat.

They stay like that for a while, moving their hands slowly up and down each other's backs and gently nudging their heads. At last, Mam'zelle Rougier turns around and disappears up the South Tower stairs. And when she's gone, Janet runs a hand through her short hair, her cheeks glowing despite the cold breeze and her breath as quick as if she'd been riding, and she smiles.

For Elvis, it is a less lucky night.

"Off you go, boy," she says to him. "Go and sleep with Lady Catherine."

***

Elvis has never seen his Janet quite like in those days that follow. She still never forgets his walks or his lessons, and she even teaches him new words. Letter and envelope, for example, and violets. Well, he'd known what violets were (he'd helped them grow often enough), only not that they were called that. And there's a new trick. It's called "Distance", and it's great fun. It means that he's not allowed to get closer to Janet than about the length of a tall human, even if she does something singularly fascinating such as rustle paper or make interesting noises or rummage around in her bag. He really likes that new trick, for whenever he manages it (and it's sometimes difficult; he's just so curious), it wins him ample praise and generous rewards. He hopes to be able to use it often.

But during the entire time, Janet is still a bit absent-minded. Time and again, her gaze will trail out of the window, or she will look at a letter that she takes out of an envelope, and then she will smile.

Apart from "Distance", he has also learned something else: Mam'zelle Rougier's other name. Humans give names to everything, which makes sense because they remember sounds so much better than scents. And most beings even have two names. Like Janet, who is Miss Peters to the girls. Or Miss Grayling, who is also Margaret (and Darling, but only to Miss Theobald). Miss Theobald is Miss Theobald and also Janet, like Janet. Bark about confusing. He is Elvis and Boy I Mean It. And Mam'zelle Rougier is Arlette.

Which is nice. Nice and distinguishable.

Perhaps he may even grow to like her one day. But only perhaps.

***

She visits them in the summer hols. Not like the neighbours or the Misses, just for tea or a picnic. No, she comes with a big, interesting-looking trunk, which she deposits in the spare bedroom that Janet has spent the last two days cleaning more thoroughly than she's ever mucked out a stable. That says something.

Janet and Arlette spend much of their time taking long walks and talking and laughing. They also kiss a lot, but always in the house, never outside where the sun is shining. He also gets to show his new "Distance" trick every time they do it. Which is often. So often, in fact, that Janet doesn't even have to tell him the command any more. But she never fails to praise him. And he gets lots of tidbits.

Well. If Arlette's presence entails the prospect of frequent tidbits, then it's all right to have her there, he supposes.

But there is one occasion where he can't bring himself to keep his distance, try as he might. It's on the second evening. Janet and Arlette have been reading to each other in the sitting room. Short things, complicated stuff with a nice flow and pleasant sounds, but he doesn't understand a word, especially of the bits that Arlette reads. So he drifts off now and then, cradled into sleep by the gentle stream of words, dozing quietly in his basket in the corner and only stirring when Janet walks past him and comes back with two cups of tea or another book.

And suddenly, they are gone.

The books are still there, and so is Arlette's blouse. But the rest of them are quite clearly gone.

He strains his ears. There are sounds coming from down the corridor. Pleasant sounds. Sounds that he'd like to investigate because they give off such a nice feeling of safety and comfort. Dogs like safety and comfort.

So he goes and takes a look.

Through the wide-open bedroom door, his eyes first fall on Janet's shirt and trousers and socks and other things. But Janet is not in them. She's lying on the bed, not exactly looking comfortable, but she sure as dog pound doesn't seem to mind.

Arlette is there, too. She isn't quite as naked as Janet. She still has a ... garment on. He doesn't know the word for it, for it's not something one finds in Janet's wardrobe, but it's about the same colour as the white shirt, only tighter and ... less.

He'd really like to know what this is called. Perhaps Janet will buy one some day. She certainly seems to find it pretty.

His attention wanders back to Arlette. He has to give her credit -- she is doing a very sensible thing there. Elvis has often wondered why humans don't do it more often; there really is no better way of thoroughly acquainting oneself with a fellow being. Arlette does it a bit differently from how he knows it, but perhaps that is because humans don't like to use their noses. Or that, too, has something to do with being French.

In any case, it is quite obvious that Arlette is doing it exactly the way Janet likes it. Janet moves her hips smoothly, and as she feels for Arlette's head with a sigh, he senses joy and heat and excitement from both of them.

He wonders if one can _learn_ to be French.

And then a word from Janet jerks him out of it -- the word that bypasses the brain and goes straight into the legs. It's usually said rather more clearly, not in some kind of breathless, aimless growl, and not surrounded by other words he doesn't understand.

But if Janet says "come", she usually means it.

So over to the bed he runs to await further instructions. He's a bit confused when he doesn't get any. Janet doesn't even seem to have noticed him. Perhaps he should make his presence known. After debating the matter over a good scratch, he decides in favour of a tentative prod on the hip. It's difficult, for Janet isn't keeping still. So he aims carefully – and jumps back in shock as he notices that the hip has moved, and what he's prodded instead is Arlette's hand.

Arlette shrieks and gives him a scowl. There is a stream of words coming out of her mouth, and he feels slightly embarrassed. He tries to calm her down by wiggling his ears – and great is his relief as he hears Janet from the other side of the bed breaking into a snort. A snort followed by words that turn into laughter, laughter that is at last joined by Arlette as Janet slings her arms around her friend and pulls her down, and they roll in the cushions like puppies in a playpen.

"Good boy, Elvis," Janet says before she sends him off to his basket.

***

The bedroom is off limits from then on.

He doesn't mind. His basket's in the living room anyway, in the cosy corner by the bookshelves. And while he liked the feeling of happiness in the room that night, he finds that as his alpha, Janet has every right to have social contact with Arlette in private. She brings home the nibbles; she makes the rules.

However, they never said anything about the _spare_ bedroom being off limits.

It hasn't been a relevant issue yet, for Arlette usually keeps its door firmly closed. But one day, as Janet is out riding and Arlette has set out for the village market with Janet's shopping basket, he finds it a crack open.

He isn't sure if Arlette would approve of his going in. But then again, he hasn't been in there for a while, and it's never good to leave a room uninhabited by a dog for too long. There are cats in the neighbourhood, and if one isn't very careful, they come in through the open window and make everything smell of them so that one gets all worked up for days when walking into that room. No, better to leave a whiff of dog scent behind every now and then, and maybe a hair or two as a warning.

Gingerly, he wiggles his nose between the door and the frame and pushes it open just wide enough to squeeze through.

Some things have changed in the room. The carpet and the soft curtain that is such a nice backrest for naps are still there. But there is also a new thingy with some of Arlette's clothes on it, and the chair by the dressing table has a new coat of paint.

Yet all of that is nothing compared to the singularly interesting object near the corner.

Arlette's trunk!

It smells of leather and something faint and flowery. And metal bits. It's an exotic mix, and he wishes he could take a peek inside. But it's closed tightly, and he knows better than to try his teeth on objects that so clearly belong to humans.

However, it might come in useful in another respect. It's placed at not quite a dog's length from the corner near the window. Now, if one were to snuggle up in that corner, one would have a very cosy den, with the pleasant-smelling trunk on one side and the soft curtains on the other. And one would be quite secluded.

It is the perfect place for a nap.

***

A creaking floorboard wakes him up from his dreams.

Oh deer!

Arlette has come back and now stands in front of the cupboard. She's just slipped out of her leaf-coloured dress, which she puts neatly on a hanger, but she wears another one underneath, a very small and thin one that doesn't at all look like a good replacement for fur and seems to him rather useless.

Luckily, she hasn't spotted him, so he decides to pretend he's not there and wait for a good moment to escape quietly. Ears and whiskers poised, he curls himself into a small ball and watches Arlette taking pins out of her hair. He is surprised to see a tail almost like Thunder's tumbling slowly down her back. Then she takes out a ribbon and shakes her head, and the tail transforms into a mane. Then she sits down at the dressing table, takes a brush, and gives it a few long, leisurely strokes.

He can relate to that. Nothing like a bit of grooming in a quiet moment.

He finds himself gripped by the sudden impulse to join her. His nether bits haven't received due attention in a while, and so he sits up, puts his left hind foot over his forehead, and goes to work.

When he looks up to catch his breath, Janet is there.

Still in her boots and jodhpurs, her riding crop peeking out of her back pocket, she stands behind Arlette and runs her hand through the long tresses. Gently, she leans forward and kisses the shoulders that the small dress leaves uncovered, and then the neck.

Ah, happiness.

There is more kissing, and finally, Arlette speaks. In a low and gentle voice, by her standards at least. And Janet is surprised. He senses reluctance, and he hears it in her voice as she answers quietly. But there is Arlette, looking Janet frankly in the eyes and caressing Janet's cheek with her hand as she continues to speak.

He has no idea what is going on there and doubts that he will be able to find out, so he leaves them to it and buries his head in the freshly-cleaned and still slightly damp fold of his hind leg.

***

When he wakes up, it is with a start.

He's heard a scream, and he's quite sure that he hasn't dreamed it.

To dog pound with his hiding-place – he sits up straight and peers past the curtain.

Arlette is on the bed, not lying but kneeling, which he's never seen humans do on a bed, and if he didn't know for sure that all humans are free-runners he'd say that Arlette has been leashed to its headrest. But it can't be, it has to have something to do with clothing, for that thing around her wrists looks much like the scarf she wears when it's breezy outside.

And Janet, his Janet, who has never hurt a living being, who uses her crop only to show Lady Catherine where to go, who never slaps flies and even feeds _rabbits_ in the winter – his Janet is up there with Arlette, aiming the very crop at her friend. Tapping her first, like the gentle pats she gives Lady Catherine with her hand, but as Arlette keeps saying "we", however that comes in there, Janet grows more confident and lands the crop right on Arlette's smooth backside.

Arlette growls, but she's not afraid. In fact, if Elvis can still trust his nose and his whiskers, she is having a jolly good time. She's warm, hot indeed, and her skin starts glowing, but there's nothing bitter, just sweetness and gratitude. Janet lightly brushes her back with kisses and between the strokes, and that makes Arlette even warmer. Janet notices that, and the nervousness that was there at the beginning seems quite gone.

They go on like that for a few beats, with Arlette growing louder each time, and their heartbeats getting faster and beads of sweat appearing on their skin, until Janet lets the crop sink and tells Arlette something that even he understands. Sweet words, they are.

And then Elvis sees something that he finds very reassuring.

Human beings do have sex.

Normal sex even, like perfectly normal beings.

Arlette is the bitch, which somehow doesn't surprise him. Yet she looks so much more involved and co-operative than most females he's ever seen, which is certainly a point in her favour. And he has to hand it to those bipeds: Janet makes one damn graceful sire! She doesn't have a willy – then again, he doesn't even know if there _are_ humans that come with a willy – but he's seen enough proof of the unique capabilities of human hands, Janet's especially, that he has no doubt that they can do even this trick just as well.

This reassuring discovery made, he gives the floor a tentative scratch, takes a leisurely pirouette, and slumps down with the sigh of a very contented dog.

***

The late afternoon sun slants through the window as he wakes up.

He gets up with a good, joyful stretch and strolls out of the room and down the stairs, past the kitchen, where Janet is making tea.

The back door is open. Arlette is sitting on the bench by the black-eyed Susans, with a book in her lap. The sun has sunk rather low, and she is occupying the last sunny spot in the garden.

He supposes it can do no harm to ask if she'll share it.

She seems so relaxed.

So he edges closer, and lo! she moves a tiny bit to the side to leave him a nice, dog-sized patch of sun. He lies down, careful not to brush her with his fur. Perhaps it is still a bit early for them to try body contact.

And then she starts speaking to him. To him, Elvis. No mistake about that, for she says his name. She also says much more that he doesn't understand, but he doesn't mind because she does it in a pleasant, warm, peaceful tone. There are a few words that he catches. "Happy" and "Janet" and "mind" and "stay" (well, all right, he will).

And then she says it. Really and truly says it.

"Good dog."

Good dog. Highest praise. Greatest bliss. Words like a tummy rub.

Hmmm.

Tummy rub...

It might be pushing his luck, but with Arlette in such a fine mood and the sun shining and life being so wonderful right now that just this one thing would make it truly perfect...

He decides to give it a try. Rocking once or twice to pick up momentum, he swings around until he finds a nice balance on his back, presenting his light brown tummy as best he can.

And indeed, after a little while, there appears a hand. Timid at first, but he keeps still so as not to scare it away. It feels quite lovely.

Footfalls announce Janet's presence in the doorway. Elvis opens an eye, just one because he really doesn't want to be distracted too much from his enjoyment. He sees his human smile as she beholds the scene in front of her. She gently sets the tray down on the small table by the black-eyed Susans, takes a few steps, and sits down on the ground by them. Resting her cheek against Arlette's knees and shivering slightly as a hand caresses her neck, she reaches towards him.

And so it is that on a late summer afternoon, as the last rays of the sinking sun send their warmth and the birds sing their lazy songs in the trees, there is Elvis with his Janet and Arlette, both glowing quietly as they tickle him in the soft spot below his chest, just where he likes it best.

Yes, he supposes that they will make a very agreeable pack.

*** _fin _***


End file.
